


It's you that I adore

by winterysomnium



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phone calls can cut connections too, they can. Can be as misunderstood as the intentions in his voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of the TimKon prompt for stolidity. Originally, it was supposed to be posted in one part. And then the plot run away with me. Took me around the world and back and yeah. So. The second part is half-written already. I think there will be three parts total. Also, this was supposed to be a mix of angst, fluff and smut. Well, the first part has got the angst covered.;__; Title is a part of a lyric from a Lana Del Rey song.

If phone calls connect, if phone calls take voices and put them into wires, transfer them into distances that are too cold but not cold enough, not distant enough to smother; if they connect and if they hand over every word and every flaw lying between them, why does the dial tone not mean waiting and excitement; why isn’t it a left-over, the remains? The remains of the connection that was there, there just a pick up away. 

No.

The dial tone is, it’s – rejection to Tim’s ears; rejection and misunderstandings and for a whole minute, he talks to it. He talks between the low accusations of its one word tune, talks like he never talks to Kon. Talks like something could break the repetition; could break _time_ , could soften the harshness their week ended in. 

It does neither. It doesn’t even mock, doesn’t spill whispers under his feet so he could stumble, could slip. Slip and have an excuse to feel hurt. 

Instead, Tim goes patrolling. Goes because his suit is a skin he can feel secure in. A skin fresh enough to be clean, to be as emotionless as the pavement he lets his weight rest on, lets it support the silence he demands from his steps.

The comlink keeps crackling; snippets from his family and reports of crime he shouldn’t hear; the conversation of the streets keeps on buzzing. He doesn’t meet up with anyone; checks on his contacts from afar (some are with their gangs and some are home; watching – maybe pointless, maybe not – TV and –) and Tim doesn’t let them notice. Doesn’t let them see his droopy shoulders, the drop of their weight supported by the slits in his cape.

Fights and swings his way home; drinks a few cups of tap water in his lonely kitchen; curls on the pillows of his bed. The blanket covers his bare feet and the curtains are closed, closed as the door to his bedroom so he’s soothed, soothed enough to sleep.

Soothed enough to let himself be comforted by the uniform, by the snug feel of the collar and by the safety-covered tunic, outlining his chest in red. 

Sleeps as Red Robin because Tim Drake’s dreams are too heavy, too dirt-scented for his mind tonight.

Phone calls can cut connections too, they can. Can be as misunderstood as the intentions in his voice.

Can be as cruel as the dial tone.

As the tone of Kon’s angry voice.

\---

Morning greets him with a headache and dread that he can’t place. Can’t breathe out and he spends his breakfast convincing himself that he’s hungry. If he’s hungry then he’s still functioning, is still a person that has needs and wants and boundaries; has limits that tell him when he shouldn’t eat another piece of bread anymore, shouldn’t jump from that railing without his grapple gun; limits that should show, should bounce him back when he’s about to overstep them. When he’s about to make Kon this angry.

This furious and he _yelled_ ; yelled and then got quiet which was – unnerving and Kon’s quiet is as terrifying as Bruce’s, as terrifying as Stephanie’s and Bart’s because they were all – 

dead quiet. For some time.

So when Kon’s quiet, quiet like this and Tim can’t see – can’t see him alive; he almost panics. 

Almost grips the phone tight enough to crack and all the stones he saw being crafted into mementos, all the stone and all the wood rotting with the ground and. 

“You can’t _buy_ me, Tim! You can’t buy _me_ or my _friends_ and if you _keep_ buying me; if you won’t stop minding your own damn business, I will quit this. I will quit _us_ , because doing anything else would just prove you right.”

Says the dial tone of Kon’s voice.

Tim buys people.

Tim sticks his nose where it’s unnecessary, where it’s unwanted and Tim –

wanted to help. To make it easier. To make it weight less. 

He has money and he has no one to spend them with and he wanted to – 

share. Not buy. _Share_. Give. 

No, Kon said he buys. 

Kon’s not the liar. Kon’s the honesty he fights to have, fights with his genes and Tim let it go; Tim yearns but could never have it, could never _not lie_ so he trusts Kon.

Trusts Kon with words. With their semantics and with the semantics of their interactions and Tim.

Tim is a buyer.

A buyer on Thursday and a buyer all week.

He avoids looking at the calendar pinned to the neck of his fridge.

He’d bought it too.

\---

Airports make him dizzy. He’s used to crowds but not to glassy floors that squeak under everyone’s shoes; not to crowds that are this messily organized, crowds that move like undersea currents and he sips his soda; puts on sunglasses and waits for his flight.

It’s Friday – says the board above his head, says his phone when he cares to look at its screen – and the crowd is thick and fast; a noise that could deafen his resolve. A lot of people want to get out of Gotham.

He’s probably the sole traveler that would love nothing more than to drive back, into the depths of asphalt and the roar of the _city_ crowd; into its _natural_ stream that takes you with them, a gust of force that’s so mindless it manages to drown out his own thoughts, his own directions of his life.

He just wants to hide on a rooftop and talk to a gargoyle for an hour, confide in the mouth that can’t answer his questions but at least: it can’t accuse him of anything either.

(Or make him feel loved, but it’s better. It’s better to feel blank than _guilty_.)

As it is, he _has_ to get from this city. It’s an order.

It’s not really an undercover mission as it’s covering up for someone else’s messy work, and it’s not really covering up either. It’s a scare mission, in a way. Because Red Robin is going to make sure that idiot selling WI’s information will end up with soiled pants by the end of tomorrow’s night.

You just don’t steal things like that. So _stupidly_. So blatantly it surprises Tim they’ve noticed only after he’s been doing that for _two months_.

(He needs to make sure the job interviews will be a lot tougher from now on.) 

The only question that’s still unclear about this whole situation is: who’s getting it?

The guy is dumb enough to steal documents and get payment delivered straight to his main bank account, but the person paying him has his tracks covered.

And of course, that’s part of the mission too.

Find out, and stop it.

In Metropolis because that’s where the guy is having a nice, weekend vacation trip planned to.

A vacation on which he’s taking a gun instead of his wife and kids. 

Yeah.

(And if anyone’s asking what business it is to Batman’s protégé that some Jacob Kiens has been stealing WI files, well: the guy was seen smuggling and awful lot of expired medical supplies from Gotham hospitals to local factories. Factories with a decent arsenal of storage houses in their possession. Perfect for a little drug cooking.)

Tim just wishes he could talk to Kon before going. Could test how mad he still is.

(He tries to call him, forty minutes before his plane should be ready to depart. Kon’s not picking up. When he tries for the second time, the call gets cancelled.)

But Kon has school, doesn’t he? Like a teenager his age is supposed to have.

Yes. He has a _life_. 

Tim has one too, but it basically _consists_ of picking up calls. Answering messages and analyzing data.

Scaring thugs.

That’s the life Tim has now.

And it’s funny, how they thought that it would be reversed. How Kon didn’t want to be a civilian, and Tim _just_ a vigilante.

How funny that they’ve seemed to switch their futures.

Tim stands up from his seat and goes to throw away the empty bottle of soda.

His plane has just arrived. 

\---

“I was wondering which one of you would come. You were my first guess; good to know my age isn’t getting in the way of my intellect yet. Not that I ever had any doubts.”

And ouch. That laugh hurts everywhere he can feel his head; stays on the inside of his skull.

There’s no aperture it could leak through and that’s a small blessing. Tim prefers his mind to be safe and right where it belongs. 

Same goes for his brain, even if his feels like someone made an omelet out of it.

(Tim has a feeling that metaphor just confirmed that assumption.)

What makes him pause is his uniform in the man’s hands, the insignia fallen on a table next to him. His insignia and all his other gear, the bandoliers and his cape, half slipping off and leading to his boots, to his _luggage_ , opened and searched through, the remains of his clothes and daily necessities a mess of invasion of privacy and _is that his phone lying dissected on the floor_?

The man smirks when he sees Tim’s alarmed eyes, states: “I’ve found some interesting messages on that.” 

Tim blushes through his glare, head pounding with his heart, with his thoughts that just keep bouncing from one side of his head to the other. His mouth is gagged, and he has enough dignity to not try out how ridiculous he would sound if he spoke up. No need to get as humiliated as every other victim of their own stupidity.

“Didn’t know we were practically family, almost son-in-law of mine.”

Luthor steps closer to Tim, leans to the place where Tim is sitting on his knees, _kneeling_ with his hands bound, in a lock he isn’t sure he can pick.

He ignores the man’s expectant, smug face and stares to the side, wondering if the tracer in his suitcase is still there (and still active).

“You know, I thought about letting you go when I found out. But even if you’re family,” Luthor grips Tim’s chin, his fingers warm but dry, rough like sandpaper. He lifts Tim’s head with ease, the world swinging for a moment. Then it settles, settles into a picture of Luthor’s nose too close to Tim’s own. “I can’t let you get away with poking around my computers’ database. We’re not that close yet,” he snarls and Tim waits for the blow, for the punch he’s learned to take.

But Luthor just lets his chin fall back to its down-tilted angle. 

“Don’t be so crude, Timothy. I’m not a violent man.”

He drags a chair from behind the table and sits down, a few feet the only distance between his shoes and the tips of Tim’s knees.

“No. As I’m sure you know, I’m more of a…scientist. And you Batboys are a very special kind of boys,” he smiles to himself, a pleased, one sided smirk, and – there’s something in his palm. A small glass bottle, the liquid in it clear, and he’s, he’s sticking a syringe into its cover. 

Tim doesn’t like this. No. Tim’s starting to _resent_ this. 

(He’ll never eat food served on a plane again. 

He’ll thoroughly check the background of every pilot and flight attendant that’s going to be on any of his flights from now on, too. How could he be so _careless_ his whole life?)

While the liquid gets sucked out of the bottle into the round body of the soon-to-be-injection, Luthor drawls: “I’ve been dying to test some things on one of you. Drug resistance. Pain endurance. Stamina.”

He flicks the full syringe with his finger, clearing it of any bubbles of air stuck in the liquid, and he stands up, moving behind Tim to reach his bound hands. 

Tim tries to struggle but it’s as futile as his attempts to free himself; his breathing speeding up to erratic when he feels Luthor’s fingers holding his right arm still. 

“Don’t worry; the testing won’t take that long. You’ll have time to finish your homework on Sunday.” He injects the needle, the sting not so bad but still unpleasant; the itching drug spreading like lead through Tim’s blood. He feels as it reaches his heart, affects the way he _breathes_ because he has never felt this heavy, never felt this tired and too weak to even lift his eyelashes.

But he’s not sleepy. He’s not dizzy or lethargic. No. He’s only in pain. And so _heavy_.

“And while I’m researching where exactly lie the limits of your body, you can think about the mistake you’ve made that gave you away to me. Your hacking skills are extraordinary, but you’re still human. You’ve still made a mistake. Can you figure out when?”

(Tim already knows. 

The night they’ve fought. 

The night Tim had already screwed up once and then proceeded to screw up again.)

And this is the result of it. The inevitable prize for making mistakes.

He’s going to have to excuse his absence from the Titan’s Tower after this weekend. (Kon will think–)

He’s going to have to debrief this to Bruce. (In detail.) What was written on that bottle…?C’mon, Tim. You’re better than this…

Red Robin is better than this.

(Tim wishes he had left a message on Kon’s phone. Wishes he hadn’t given up. Had kept calling.

Wishes he had called when he still could talk.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are only shards of thoughts left in him.  
> His mind is a shattered glass, destroyed into thousands pieces and every time light hits one of the shards, a thought fires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A TimKon prompt for stolidity.  
> Also, there’s some fluff at the end, like I promised. Title is from a song by Lana Del Rey.

There are only shards of thoughts left in him. 

His mind is a shattered glass, destroyed into thousands pieces and every time light hits one of the shards, a thought fires.

A thought expands through his body. His body that can’t switch off. Tim pleads. He begs for it to shut down. 

He wants to disappoint any expectation Luthor has.

He wants to collapse, to get his bones broken. To finally get shot.

What is it that makes him avoid another cluster of bullets? What makes him kick the gun out of the mechanical hands; makes him shatter the spying camera in the corner?

(But there are still people watching him, statues in white and plastic, young faces and he thinks it’s so _wrong_ that he’s grateful. Grateful Luthor gave him a domino mask.)

His legs still feel too heavy. He thought the kick wouldn’t connect. Wouldn’t lift. Wouldn’t reach the little whirring spy. So he pushed. Pushed with a force he wouldn’t use in Gotham. A force he wouldn't dare to unleash. Was that the magic in it? The trick behind the drugs? Forcing you to strain your body to the limit?)

The camera dented the wall; the lenses cracked and out of focus. Mewling its machine moans of pain.

What makes Tim so _unstoppable_? Is it the drugs?

No. He wishes it were.

It’s his _pride_.

(He doesn’t want to fail. Doesn’t want to disappoint even such a shitty person like Luthor. Why? Why doesn’t he want to see indifference in _those_ eyes?)

He jumps when the floor declines under his weight, when it drops a good ten feet. And as he’s deciding between the three possible route’s he could choose to escape; a thought repeats itself. 

_At least Dick isn’t here. At least Jason isn’t here. At least Damian isn’t here._

It repeats itself until it’s a chant. Until it’s the chorus of his steps.

If someone should take this, it’s Tim.

\---

The bedroom he wakes up in isn’t his. He suspects he isn’t even in Gotham and the scenery he sees when his look scratches a window confirms that suspicion.

He’s still in Metropolis.

But he’s not bound anymore, he’s not gagged. The bed sheets under his bare feet are soft. Scented after something vaguely flowery. 

(Is he in a hotel room?)

He lifts on his elbows, breath hitching as the tired, slowly spreading ache unfolds, pooling over his arms down to his sternum. 

He’s not sure if the ache is more internal or if there are bruises blistering across the underside of his skin, and when he looks, he can’t determine it either.

Someone changed his clothes.

The jeans he has on are still a bit crisp, stiff in the familiar way they always are after they dry from being washed and the shirt and sweater smell fresh too; Tim recognizes the laundry detergent he uses.

These are his spare clothes from his luggage. Speaking of that – he lifts further, sitting up, the bed underneath his limbs rustling quietly around the dip. Tim balances, his palms unsteady on the sinking sand of the mattress.

The added height of his forearms allows him to see the fragments of the carpet nearest to the bed, and his suitcase – is right next to it. It’s still opened, but it's neatly packed this time. Packed the exact way Tim would have done it.

The way it was packed _before_. The only difference is his uniform lying on the top of the tidy pile. His gear is visible too, peeking around the sides of the suitcase.

Luthor made sure Tim saw that nothing got stolen. Saw it right away.

(He loathes that Luthor tries to convince him he did nothing wrong. That he’s actually _nice_.)

What else would this gesture be for?

When Tim moves to make sure nothing got tampered with, he can hear paper crinkle with his weak stretch. He feels it now too, a corner of an envelope jabbing into his clothed hip, half of it under his thigh. For a second, the surprise of the texture overcomes the painful ache in his joints.

It’s a manila envelope and an inch farther, his phone, looking completely fine; assembled back to its previous state. 

It’s already switched on, with an unread message sign highlighted in the lower corner of the screen.

It isn’t hard to guess who has sent that message. 

Tim thinks about not opening it. About not reading the honey laced words Luthor will surely serve him.

His curiosity stops his thumb from deleting the message. And his vigilante consciousness – _what if it’s important? What if someone dies if he doesn’t read it?_ – persuades him to open it.

_“Dearest son-in-law, to put your mind at ease, the tracer in your suitcase was kept active and I’ve had an employee imitate every move you would have made if complications might have arisen during your stay. The people receiving your signal don’t know you’ve never been on your mission, or that it was fake. Furthermore, I’ve sent an apology message to your weekend resort, so my son wouldn’t have to worry about your absence. After all, I would hate to distress him in any way. I would also hate to create any inconveniences for you, since you’ve been such great company this whole weekend. In the envelope I’m sure you’ve discovered already are all the materials you need about the person who’s been buying WI’s information. That was your initial mission, or am I wrong? Also, Jacob Kiens won’t be a problem anymore. I’m looking forward to our next meeting, son-in-law. It’s been a pleasant two days, don’t you think?”_

Tim can’t help but throw his phone against the wall. 

(What a pattern that has become. Destroying things. Leaving marks on walls he wishes would help. Would hide him.

 _They only kept collapsing –_ )

The text continues to haunt his phone’s screen. 

He needs to get out of here. He needs to – 

look into the envelope. Check if Luthor really _has_ left a message for the Teen Titans in his name. If his tracer is back in his suitcase.

But first – 

he staggers to the bathroom, his legs not really jelly. No, they feel awfully brittle. Stiff and half broken, like the slightest tremble could send their structure falling apart.

It’s not possible. Tim acknowledges that. (If there wasn’t any cell construction disengaging drug eating away his body. Or just weakening it, slowly, until it breaks down, becomes liquid under his _skin_ –)

God, _stop_. 

Tim spends two draining hours in the shower. And then another one, outside the curtained cubicle, inspecting every injection mark and bruise, every scar he can’t remember healing.

(He avoids catching his face in the mirror.)

What would he see? 

(He’s never felt so violated. So humiliated like this.)

_He can’t trust his own skin._

What if Luthor has implanted something into his muscles? What if he infected Tim? What if Tim is a container; a shell of a bomb that waits for the crowd, wait for his family to invade his vicinity.

Waits for _Kon_.

His body is a mine field. It’s contaminated.

He’s _contaminated_.

(Tim’s ashamed. It’s _shame_ ; that burn. That clogging in his chest. That pressure in his fists.) 

He’s never wanted to keep something a secret more.

\---

It’s only a few miles before Gotham’s eastern silhouette skips under a hill and then emerges again, huge and close; so tangible he could touch her towers with his tongue. 

It’s _then_. 

It’s then that Tim realizes: He _can_ keep it a secret. No. _He has to._

He realizes: no one needs to know. No one _can_ know. 

Not before he checks he’s not contagious; not before it’s determined that there isn’t any implant under his skin, drilled into his bones. That there are no bugs roaming in his bloodstream.

He can do all that at his apartment. His nest has everything he needs. 

To go to Bruce would not only be a privacy breach. It would be a security endangerment. Tim’s _dangerous_ now. Tim’s a hazard until he gives himself the clear.

Tim’s in quarantine.

(And it’s not like isolation wasn’t ever needed before. It’s not like it’s an unknown concept to Tim.)

No. It’s almost too familiar.

\---

After Tim has saved his report and sent it to the Batcave’s head computer, claiming his mission was a success, turning off his tracer and trying to convince himself that the food in his fridge _wasn’t_ drugged (but throwing everything away anyway), he disappears back into the confines of his nest. And locks himself in.

He spends three days taking blood samples, scanning his skin and searching every inch of his skeleton, his muscles, analyzing data and dissecting every piece of clothing, inspecting all of his equipment and everything else he took with him that was exposed to Luthor’s hands.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t find _anything_.

So he looks and takes and analyzes again. And again. 

And then takes his results and goes to Leslie, pleading for a series of medical tests he can’t do at home.

Pleading her to keep them discreet. Convincing her he’s just doing a basic, annual check-up. Which he _is_ due for.

She mails him her results the next day.

Apart from being exhausted, and his sugar level being a tad low, _nothing_ is wrong with Tim. 

He finds it hard to believe that Lex Luthor's only goal was to tire him out and deprive him of sugar.

But it certainly looks that way.

\---

It’s the middle of the week. He knows it is. He knows Kon’s at school; won’t be out of it for another two hours.

So why is he here already?

Smallville has greeted him twenty minutes ago, its early spring fields partly a rich, coffee brown, partly _so_ green Tim’s eyes had hurt.

The busy streets are crossed with streets that are quiet, a murmur next to a roar, and Tim enjoys this.

Enjoys the contrast this town offers, the choice. 

(If he wants a postcard feeling of Gotham, he stays on the main street. If he wants to feel the strange foreignness that soaks the air on nearly deserted streets, he stays closer to the outskirts. Closer to the dry smell of grass Kon has on early Fridays, on days he comes straight from the fields.) 

Tim has parked his bike on the side of a street near Kon’s school, sat down in a corner café, seated by a wide mouthed, paneled window, and is sipping a cappuccino – after the strain and a two day feast, he thinks he can indulge himself a bit – waiting for Kon’s steps to echo outside of the facility.

He gets one, warm sip of the drink past his lips and then he freezes, almost spitting it back out. It’s already trickling down his throat so he swallows, swallows it and shoots up in his seat; his heart matching the desperate screech of the stool.

Thankfully, it gets lost in the slurping sounds of steam frothing a cup of milk, coming from behind the counter and Tim tries not to look as panicked as he feels as he heads to the bathroom, where he kneels in a stall and forces himself to throw up, throw up the small gulp of coffee and the remains of his lunch.

It’s only after he goes to wash his mouth, eyeing the tap water suspiciously, that he becomes aware of how utterly ridiculous he is. 

He’s gotten so _paranoid_.

Distrustful of anything that feels safe, feels out of Luthor’s reach.

This is so _ridiculous_. There’s _no_ reason for Luthor to want him again. There’s nothing that special about Tim. He didn’t even want _Tim_ specifically the first time.

No. Tim was just the self-elected guinea pig. The laboratory rat that got caught first. 

Something not needed after the experiment is done.

 _And it’s done._

But he still can’t swallow any of the remaining drink.

He spends the next hour and half staring at his cup, willing himself to drink it. To not let it go to waste.

(Why isn’t Kon here? He would tell Tim how dumb he’s being. Would say: “Dude, stop freaking out. It’s a perfectly fine cup of coffee, look!... See? Nothing wrong with it. I’m sure my _supertaste_ would find out _right away_ if there was something bad about it!”)

And Tim knows: even if there’s nothing super about Kon’s tastes, Tim wouldn’t hesitate to drink it anymore. 

\---

Defeated by _a perfectly fine cup of coffee_ , he moves his bike so he’s parked directly before the school grounds, and waits for Kon to appear in the huge, double doors of the bustling building.

(He’s so nervous he might throw up again.)

There was a _six day_ radio silence between them, what with Tim cooped up in his apartment for the last three days, and somehow, he thinks Kon’s even madder at him now.

(Like not calling means no guilt. No remorse; no need to explain.

Like cancelling Tim’s call wasn’t letting the ball drop on Kon’s side of the field.) 

Tim’s scared. That his “disinterest” just strengthened the assumption that Tim didn’t regret it. That he wasn’t sorry.

That he was _happy_ with this mess.

And when he sees Kon’s face fall from the warm smile to a frown as soon as he spots Tim standing on the sidewalk, awkwardly holding a helmet too big to be his, Tim’s chest falls too. 

(He hopes his stomach can digest all that bone and bloody tissue, all those cells. Because he can’t pull them up.

Can’t get them back into his ribcage. Since his ribcage ended up there too.)

He still forces a welcoming smile on his lips. Straighten ups his posture as Kon stalls within the unevenly shaped circle of his friends, chatting with them for whole five minutes before saying goodbye, before he approaches Tim’s crestfallen presence, walking almost lazily, oozing disinterest. 

“You just had to take the bike, huh?” Kon says instead of a greeting, and the subtext of “show off” doesn’t escape Tim’s ears. Like Tim’s selling himself again.

Tim still tries to hold the smile.

“How else would I get here from Kansas’ airport? Anyway, care for a lift?” Tim offers Kon the helmet resting between his palms, but the boy just grips the strap of his backpack tighter, pulling it higher up his back.

“You could’ve hired a cab,” Kon answers. “I can’t believe you even _have_ a bike stored there.”

Tim’s waning smile shapes into a hopeful, sheepish grin. “Well, you know me.” 

“Do I?”  
Kon sticks his free hand into his jeans pocket and looks to the side. 

Tim can see Kon’s friends watch them, can feel their curious, closed off looks and careful alertness; they’re ready to jump if Kon needed to be defended. Ready to fight.

(Tim thinks he would let them. Attack him. Punch him. Even if _Red Robin_ could take a bunch of high school kids blindfolded, Tim Wayne doesn’t have that privilege. No. Tim Wayne is still in recovery. 

He also can't throw a decent punch.)

When the line of Kon’s jaw doesn’t loosen up, Tim starts to regret the decision to settle their argument here. To dissolve the fight in the welcoming fields of Kon’s home.

Tim understands now, why Smallville has always felt so pleasant and nice.

Because _Kon_ was. Kon made it the nice, welcoming place. 

(Just as now, Kon made it the coldest city Tim has ever been in.)

He bites his lip; can feel his smile slump along with his spine. “Kon,” Tim pleads; his voice so small, so tiny he’s afraid the gusts of wind might steal it from his lips. “Please.”

Kon rolls his eyes but sighs and reluctantly takes the helmet from Tim’s hands. As Tim hides his head in his own, a bit smaller helmet, Kon sits on the back of the bike’s seat.

Tim’s heart speeds up, all the way down and half-digested as it is. He seats himself before Kon’s spread thighs, says: “Hold on tight,” which is as unnecessary as it’s another plea; his feet pushing up the stand holding the bike steady.

Kon’s embrace is weak but the scent of his clothes _isn’t_. The scent and the heat of his palms, the reoccurring press and withdrawal of his chest against Tim’s back, and involuntarily, Tim relaxes. Is soothed by the strings of memories it evokes, the amount of words that pop into his mind, the pile of situations he can remember them living through.

Kon’s glasses – dropped to the front pocket of his shirt – dig into Tim’s shoulder blade, and he knows he’ll always have this. Have Kon’s back. 

He’s safe.

After seven days, he’s finally safe.

\---

The dinner is uncomfortable, Ma and Pa trying to ignore the cold, unusual way Kon’s treating Tim and Ma attempts to compensate for his rudeness with her kindness and Pa with small talk, and while Tim’s immensely grateful for it, _he is_ , he can’t really find it in himself to enjoy the situation or the food.

Between his freshly developed paranoia and Kon’s unimpressed stares (that Tim can easily interpret as “you just think you’re so above this”) his appetite plummets right down the drain.

He eats three mouthfuls before the food grows inside his mouth, and Tim thinks he’s been chewing for far too long when he finally manages to swallow the bite. 

He eagerly jumps at the opportunity of discussing taxes and business with Pa, the topic a rush of familiarity. 

Ma looks concerned at the lack of appetite and how Tim doesn’t really eat as much as nudges his food with his fork, piling it from one side of the plate to the other and after fifteen minutes of this, she asks: “Are you feeling well, Tim? You’ve barely touched your food,” and she looks genuinely _worried_ , worried for someone who’s not even her family –

( _Didn’t know we were practically family, son-in-law._ ) Tim’s stomach lurches.

“I’m just not really hungry. I’m sorry,” Tim apologizes, lowering his fork onto his plate, letting it carefully slip from his fingers. He gives up on trying to eat at least a portion of the meal. He wanted to eat at least a fourth of it. At least more than _three bites_ so Kon would stop sending those disapproving glances Tim can feel on the side of his neck. 

“I’ve had some stomach problems lately,” Tim confesses afterwards.

“Oh, how come? Have you been eating properly? Getting enough sleep?” Ma asks and Tim flushes at the attention she continues to give him, the attention she shares even after he practically _refused to eat_ the wonderful meal she’s spent her time and energy to make. 

(He’s severely reminded of Alfred and his carefully toned voice, can see his concern in the furrow of her brows.)

“…I might have had some late nights these past few days,” Tim says and Ma’s disapproving look matches Alfred’s too. 

(It’s also so _different_ from Kon’s Tim looks into the boy’s direction, just to compare the differences.)

And spends the rest of the meal staring at his lap or the edge of the table, attempting to ignore the pointed way Kon’s ignoring _him_.

(Tim vaguely wonders – for the first time since their fight – if he’s _really_ the almost family Luthor took him for.

Then again, a _stranger_ would probably get a warm welcome. Would get a smile from Kon.

Tim got neither.) 

\---

The barn isn’t really cold but Tim still tugs his sleeves down to his palms and catches their edges with his fingertips, capturing them in the stretch he can feel up to his shoulders.

It’s a tiny comfort habit he picked up, somewhere between becoming Robin and losing him, the feeling of his clothes being too big letting him feel like a kid, like he hasn't fully grown up yet.

(Like he doesn’t have to be responsible. Not in the hours where he’s too small to fit into his own clothes.) 

The couch’s faded covers match Tim’s pale nervousness, and Tim can remember all the times they’ve spent here together, which – isn’t all that much. Between the distance and Tim’s busy schedule, he doesn’t get many opportunities to spend his nights here.

But he cherishes them. The exhausted, toppling into bed early mornings; the slow, making out after dinner until the sun doesn’t mark the horizon anymore evenings; the nights reduced to the naked exposure of his moans against Kon’s belly.

He hopes _this_ won’t be the end of it. Of the tea warming up the table under the ring of the cup, of Kon’s weight he can feel next to his side, of the sky that seems wider, fuller, here over the farm’s roof.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says, more to Kon’s knees than to his face, the worn denim tight around the bent joints.

“Are you?” Kon answers, voice still clipped and lukewarm, but at the least: there’s no malice in it. 

Tim slowly looks up, the quiet dread of the question drying his mouth. “If you don’t believe even that… then it’s already over,” he swallows and sees that Kon’s fidgeting too, the muscles in his forearms twitching under his skin.

Twitching like he’s fighting, trying to reach out, to touch the air and to touch – 

“Tim, you’ve spent your _life_ lying.”

“And hating every second of it!” The levelness of Tim’s voice snaps; skips a tone higher and back, smoothening to low again. Smoothening to the genuine emotions he knows are slipping through. “I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t mean to…to buy you.”

Tim mutters sadly, and he nearly flinches – genuinely surprised – when a tentative touch rubs the side of his knee, spreads to his fingers still clasped over his sleeves. He recognizes the shapeless feel of Kon’s TTK, and when it slips into the gap between the pads of his fingers and the cotton of his hoodie, he squeezes its weightless texture.

“I know you didn’t. I was just… I was just so _mad_ …because you _always_ freaking do this! You make a decision without asking about my opinion and yeah, that’s all fine when it’s about something not concerning me – even if it _would_ be nice, if you _did_ ask me for it, because, _two heads are better than one_ , or some crap like that, right? Well, no one’s head is probably better than yours, but you get what I’m trying to say, right? I just. It just felt like you’ve completely disregarded anything I would have to say.”

Tim’s fingers squeeze tighter, almost white with the pressure behind the touch. “I’m really sorry,” he responds, raising his chin to meet Kon’s eyes. “But your opinion _does_ matter to me. It _truly_ does.”

Kon sighs and Tim can’t help but bite his lip again, wondering if he can lighten the still heavily sagging atmosphere around them. If he can bring them back to _them_. “I mean, I’m not taking any fashion tips from you anytime soon, and your TV show preferences kinda suck too, but other than that, I’m all ears,” Tim tries,tone as joking as tentative, smiling hopefully at Kon’s changing expression, the boy’s lips forming into a disbelieving smile of his own.

He yelps when Kon tackles him, pinning Tim to the cushions and capturing his hands between their chests, Tim’s legs still dangling off the edge of the couch, Kon floating an inch above him.

“Dude, you’re still an _ass_.” Kon shakes his head, but he’s – more fondly exasperated than cold and Tim laughs, the sound as quiet as it’s incredulous.

“ _I’m_ an ass? You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder the whole day!”

“Yeah, and do you know how _exhausting_ that is?! Pretending to be still all mad at you when you’re moping around like a kicked puppy?” Kon counters, dropping another half inch closer to Tim's frame.

Tim’s eyes narrow. “ _Pretending_ to be mad? What does _that_ mean?”

Kon has the decency to look sheepish, if just for a second. Then he’s looking at Tim like he’s a little kid and Tim the angry, expectant parent, waiting for a reasonable explanation behind a stupid – and apparently _exhausting_ – course of action. “To be honest…The steam kinda went out of me when I’ve had to spend the whole weekend without you. I missed you, okay? But you still needed to learn a lesson.”

Tim huffs. “I’m not a dog!” aiming to punch Kon’s shoulder but hitting the flat plain of his sternum instead, his hands still pinned to his own chest.

“Yeah,” Kon agrees, “you’re a _puppy_.”

“That’s completely ridiculous.”

“You’re not convincing me otherwise, man. You’re a posh, pedigree puppy.”

“Sorry, I was wrong, _you’re_ ridiculous.”

“ _Your mouth_ is ridiculous,” Kon says, stroking his thumb under Tim’s lips and then he kisses him, soft and chaste and warm; his TTK sliding under Tim’s hoodie and shirt at the same time.

“Your TTK is ridiculous,” Tim mutters when Kon moves his mouth to kiss Tim’s chin and the boy freezes.

“You did _not_ just insult my super awesome, super tactile telekinesis.”

Tim snickers.

“See if I’m ever gonna use it when we’re having sex again.” 

“Oh, there goes the quali –”

“One more word, Tim. I swear. One. More. Word.”

Kon points a finger at Tim’s nose, the boy’s mouth hidden under the soft cover of Kon’s palm.  
Tim laughs, the muffled sound shaking through his ribcage and when he feels Kon’s hand lifting, he slips his arms from under Kon’s chest and embraces his neck, pulling him into his lips.

It takes Kon five kisses to lower the smile that has threatened to split Tim’s lips; to keep him from laughing against his tongue.

(Tim is just. There’s a burst. A burst of emotions he hasn’t felt for so long it feels like he lost them all together, like he’s just discovering them.

Like they’re dropped around the corners of Kon’s body and they're under the disguise of sensations, reduced to wordless firing of synapses, and Tim wants them. 

The tingle when Kon strokes his lips with his tongue; the heat when he rubs his hips, covering them with his _palms_ ; the dizziness when his thigh slide between Tim’s, or the tickle of his short hair against Tim’s ears.

Tim wants them all. 

And he forgets why he lost them. He forgets the emotions he’s felt for the last three days.

(Not completely. No. But. Right now, it feels like they’ve happened to someone else.

And they did.

 _Red Robin_ screwed up but Tim made it better, _Tim_ made something good again and Red Robin, Red Robin slides off his shoulders. For the moment.

For the time Kon will stay on his skin.)

Tim moans.

\---

In Kon’s room, in the pocket of Tim’s jacket, Tim's phone singsongs a short melody.

The screen glows, shining through the textile layers of the pocket. The message waits unopened in the designated corner.

_“How’s your right hand doing, son-in-law?”_


End file.
